Category: Southern Living

I haven’t taken more than a few days off from the day job for years. Nobody fills in when I’m out. An overwhelming quantity of emails, phone messages, and snail mail waiting when I return offset the benefits of getting away. I use vacation days a few at a time for long weekends throughout the year. I went into work on June 26 and, after checking my calendar, decided on a whim to take off until July 10. For thirteen glorious days, I hardly left the house. I did check my work email regularly and ended up having to go to the office once. But the rest of the time, I did exactly what I wanted to do. Not long …

In gay parlance, I’m not a “car queen.” Motor vehicles do nothing for me. Even the nicest car or truck is simply a means from point A to point B. Recently, however, I’ve been very interested in one particular vehicle. A bunch of guys rent a house around the corner. A year or so ago, they expanded into a second house which is two doors down from me. All the guys have vehicles, and, from what I see, a vehicle-owning significant other who often spends the night. The street between the two houses often looks like a parking lot. Judging from the license plates, most of these young men and their women hail from a tiny little county in rural Georgia. Some of the gals drive Jeeps, …

As your resident Crotchety Old Man, bitching and complaining is what I do. Exacting my revenge with a withering review is immensely satisfying and more than a little fun. Offering praise is rare. Fairness dictates equal treatment for businesses that go above and beyond the call of duty. My history with cars can be divided into two distinct periods: before and after finding out maintenance involves more than adding gasoline and replacing worn tires. My inability to tell a thingamajig from a watchamacallit cost me a fortune. “Whatever you say, man,” tends to double the cost of any repair. Rather than buying someone else’s problem, every ten years since 1995 I’ve bought a new vehicle and, at first, used the dealer for scheduled …

Dear Friends, Holiday greetings from the Deep South. This year, I’m not sending any cards. My declining vision is such that hand-writing notes and addressing envelopes is too difficult. Yeah, I could print labels and mail form letters, but that’s about as personal as those stupid holiday email messages with dancing elves or some such. May as well write a holiday blog post. Regarding my vision (since I brought it up), I’m legally blind in one eye with 20/60 to 20/80 vision in the other. The retina specialist has given up on my bad (right) eye, but I get injections in the other one every four weeks to keep it from getting any worse. I see well enough to do most of what …

In our little subdivision, I’m the resident crotchety old man. Pity the fool who provokes me. I run kids out of my yard, fuss at anyone who fails to pick up after their dogs, and call the police to report illegally parked cars. A guy I’d guess to be in his early thirties recently moved into the neighborhood. He bought a house that had previously been rented by an army of drunken college students. The percentage of rentals in our ‘hood has gone up since I moved in. We homeowner were happy to see him. Within days, dog walkers warned me to stay clear of his house. On several occasions, he’d come running out of his house to tell them dogs were …

The push for transgender rights is much in the news these days. The guidance issued to schools by the U.S. Departments of Justice and Education provoked a flurry of fear-mongering commentary from opposition groups. You’d think the world was coming to an end. Science has established that gender, sexual preference, and gender identity are three completely different animals. The switches are set one way or the other in the womb. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sometimes they line up the same way, and sometimes they don’t. Shortly after North Carolina’s governor signed the transgender bathroom bill into law, I posted a comment on Facebook saying I was unwilling to patronize a state or business that discriminates. I was commenting …

I grew up in Kentucky, lived in D.C. for eighteen months, and for the past seventeen years, have called Athens, Georgia home. Most folks would say I’m a Southerner. I say most because some denizens of the Deep South don’t consider Kentucky or D.C. part of the South. Blame the War of Northern Aggression, or what you might know as the Civil War Folks down here have a different way of talking. In fact, some outside of the region have a hard time understanding what we say. Part of it is the accent, but the words we use can be confusing too. Here’s a guide for folks outside the region.. Anem. Everyone, as in, “How’s yer momma anem durrin?” Bless …

I’m super excited to have Peggy Tucker as a guest on my blog today. She’s a central character in my new release, Whippersnapper, and an extraordinary woman. She’s agreed to answer a few questions and, as a special treat, will share the recipe for her famous cinnamon buns. Peggy: Thank you, Michael. I’m thrilled to be here, and more than a little nervous. I’m not used to all the attention I’ve been getting since Whippersnapper was released. MR: No need to be nervous. We’re all friends here. So tell me, Peggy, how did you end up in the middle of an M-M novel about a May-September romance? Peggy: It was a huge misunderstanding. Blame that handsome Oliver Crumbly. We belong to …

I’m lucky. A hand-cranked freezer is the star of my first ice cream memory. I’d eaten the store-bought version before, but making our own ice cream was a special occasion. Vanilla was the norm, augmented sometimes with strawberries, peaches, or bananas. Licking the paddles was the reward for helping with the cranking. Sometimes — not very often — Dad took us out for ice cream. Whether soft-serve or hand-dipped, he always got a banana split. I got a cone. Chocolate chip was my favorite, but I liked vanilla or chocolate almost as much. We had Mr. Softee back then — a mobile ice cream shop with soft-serve ice cream and other frozen treats. I became addicted. When the truck came down …

I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky — the thoroughbred horse capital of the world. Getting back home happens less and less often. There’s much to love about my old hometown, and I find myself missing it more and more all the time. If I had to pick one thing I miss the most about Lexington — other than friends and family — it would be the bluegrass. Bluegrass is the best of all the turf grasses. Nothing compares with a barefoot walk through tall, cool bluegrass. I love the dark green color and the way it shimmers in the breeze. The last time I was home, I didn’t get a chance check out the gay scene. Things have changed since I left. Last …